


Not Crazy

by Clayla



Category: Batman (Comics), Batman - All Media Types
Genre: Abusive Relationships, Alternate Universe - No Powers, Bat Family, Dysfunctional Family, Dysfunctional Relationships, F/F, F/M, I Tried, M/M, OOC, batfam heavy, because everyone is capeless, jack napier - Freeform, more tags will be added, somewhat dubcon
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-08-05
Updated: 2018-03-14
Packaged: 2018-12-11 09:00:28
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 10,154
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11711136
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Clayla/pseuds/Clayla
Summary: Bruce, the classic authoritarian dadJack, the crazy on and off boyfriendDick, the successful brother with a complexJason, the family scapegoatTim, the one who just wants to be normalAnd Damian, the manipulative baby of the familyOr, life is hard enough without being Batman. A batjokes + batfam capeless au





	1. Chapter 1

There’s no dinner tonight. There had been - New England style clam chowder to be specific - but it made the unsavory mistake of playing dead on the battlefield between insane David and steroid Goliath in the Stalingrad of Cold War II. Its fate now rested within the trenches: a stainless steel Kohler. Jason shakes his head. Novice mistake.

Jason goes to dig in the pantry. There’s a pack of juice boxes on the top shelf, plastic wrap hazardly torn partway. Expired jerky in various forms - sticks, cubes, slices - reign the middle row. On the bottom, bulk size cereal boxes tumble over each other, a sagging pack of water bottles standing vigil. An abysmal selection, truly, but Jason supposes one more day after nearly eighteen years of jerky and juice is tolerable. Certainly preferable over venturing into the second coming, even if it did have leftover pizza.

Porcelain shatters from the kitchen. Yes, jerky and juice would do. 

With his scavenged loot, Jason retreats to sanctum - the second floor. Halfway up the stairs, he considers turning back to snatch a few extra rations for Tim and Damian, still oblivious to the fact that dinner has been canceled, but hears what only an experienced ear could identify as everything on the breakfast counter being swept to the ground, and bolts. In war, it was each man for himself. Dick taught him that, inadvertently. Now the man was out whoring himself on Wall Street, and Jason hated his guts. He also couldn’t wait join him, not on Wall Street, of course, but in the nether regions of the world known as Not Wayne Manor. 

He reaches his room without much fanfare, and snaps the lock and shuts the door in one swoop. Tossing the juice box onto the beige carpet, he falls back onto his bed and examines the jerky. To his bewilderment, he’d gotten a bag of cubes, instead of the jerky stick he swears he grabbed. A part of him is annoyed at his father, greatly annoyed. The kind of annoyed that is sharp, white hot, and pressurized in a tiny reserved bottle in his chest. It makes him want to throw the jerky to the ground, stomp on it, smush it into a stick shape, and fucking stab his father with it-

until he remembers that it was he who grabbed the jerky cubes, and any other normal person would just shrug and move on. Jason sighs, willing himself to gently set the jerky onto the bed. He compromises on throwing it half heartedly to the floor. 

A relatively quiet lull in the fight is interrupted by heavy, thundering feet, the kind from a predator cornering its prey with absolute confidence it could not escape. A villainous monologue of sorts, except this kind was not fueled by ego (although ego certainly did not take a back seat) but rather a timidity guised behind a threat. Humans were a complicated bunch, and sometimes the predator didn’t want to eat the prey - just wanted to terrorize it, enslave it, but never fully break it. After all, the high was in the fight, not the victory. Usually, though, the prey got tired of this game and left, and hopefully the predator went and got some much needed therapy, but once in a while, a prey would come along, sick and demented enough to want to play to, and in that case, the prey became the predator-

and for fuck’s sake, Jason just wants to theorize about the World Series like other kids his age, instead of philosophizing shit no one would ever listen to, much less take into consideration. Sliding onto the floor and snatching his juice box, he once again considers slipping down the hall and offering it to his younger brothers, and perhaps they could maybe even do something together, like play a video game, or watch a movie. Or maybe be could take a stand of his life and barge into the kitchen, slapping some much needed sense into his adoptive father and his psycho boyfriend. Maybe stop his father from yanking the man’s hair out of his head, or convince the other man to back down and stop being a goddamn nuisance for once. 

Or maybe he could pick up his jerky and set it gently onto his bed. Except, of course, Jason has the promissory for a golden, one way ticket in seven months, and what was seven more months of holding silent and still in what has been nearly eighteen years?

Glass shatters downstairs. 

***

And on the first day of summer, Bruce Wayne said ‘Let there be Dick,’ and Richard Grayson arose from foaming Burberry aftershave, swathed in Armani and Versace, with a pair of mirrored clubmasters perched on his supercilious nose. He smiles blindingly as he greets the family in the foyer - well, Alfred, Bruce (and by default, Jack,) and Damian. Tim and Jason had holed up upstairs in their respective bedrooms, although both sneaked glances outside their windows and noticed the absence of a Lamborghini on the gleaming carvestone driveway. Instead, the vehicle had been parked in the garage, a sign that the eldest Wayne child perhaps intended to stay longer than the day. 

“Alfred,” Dick greets warmly, sunglasses still on and catching a ridiculous glare from the afternoon sun seeping through the tall window above front door. “Always glad to see you in good health.”

“As with you, sir,” Alfred responds with a slight smile - the man’s smaller smiles always seemed bigger than his wide ones - and the two share a warm embrace. 

“Father,” Dick says, clapping Bruce on the shoulder and firmly shaking his hand. “Good to see you too.”

Bruce grunts, albeit in a lighter pitch than usual. 

“Jack,” Dick says simply, bending down and having the audacity to embrace the slight man, leaving Bruce to wonder why he, the father, is the only one so far to not receive a hug. Annoyance bubbled in his chest, fueled by the fact that he and Jack still weren’t on speaking terms since last week.

“And Dami,” Dick says, lips spreading into a wide smile as he kneels down to tightly embrace the begrudging ten year old. Damian Wayne was one of the rare instances Dick Grayson’s multi-thousand dollar suits touched the ground, even if it was imported marble. “Did ya miss me, buddy?”

“I’ve told you, Grayson,” the boy says strictly, the surname both an endearment and an assertion of the boy’s unique billion dollar birthright, “I am to be called Damian, not some childish diminutive.”

“Right, of course,” Dick smiles, ruffling Damian’s hair as he straightens. “Whatever you say, little D.”

Damian makes a perturbed sound in his throat, and crosses his arms. 

“How long do you plan to stay, sir?” Alfred asks, schedules already mapping out in his head. Dick shrugs.

“Right now, there’s nothing at work I can’t handle here. I might stay for a few days,” Dick says, glancing curiously up the ivory stairwell. “Say, aren’t we short a few people here?”

Bruce gravelly clears his throat.

“I tried, but they refused,” he says for an explanation. “They’re in their rooms.”

Dick nods, heading for the stairs. “Dinner still at seven around here?”

Alfred nods. “Right on the dot,” he responds. 

Dick hums to himself as he treks the stairs. The first door to the left the landing belonged to Tim. A torn poster hangs on the ivory door, a vintage style map of the world that he received as a gift when he was eleven. Designed to look frayed and old, with the beige tint of aged paper, it was now, three years later, actually old, tearing slightly right across the Atlantic. Dick makes a note to buy him a new one. 

Tim answers after one knock, and Dick gently pushes into the room. As always, the room was horribly depersonalized, in Dick’s opinion. Beyond the poster on the door, there wasn’t much in the room that hadn’t been set there by Bruce when Tim first moved in. Clothes lay folded in neat piles on the plain blue bed, and the window blinds were slotted to a perfect forty five degree angle, mapping hot, afternoon light onto the beige carpet. An oak bookshelf sat in the corner of the room, items perfectly lined and seemingly untouched, although not a fleck of dust graced it. The teenaged owner of the room was bent over his desk, working through a standardized test booklet. 

“Hey,” Dick says gently. Tim spares him a quick glance and a grunt. Dick steps forward, trying to look over his shoulder, but not loom. “Busy?”

Tim pauses briefly, a sudden movement in which his pencil stills over their incessant scribbling. He considers.

“Yes,” he says, and continues writing. Dick nods.

“Alright, well, I’ll leave you to it. Catch up later, alright?”

Tim grunts again, not looking up as Dick quietly closes the door behind him, the latch clicking pristinely into place. With a sigh, Dick gazes down the hall, where at the end, where Jason Todd resided. 

Jason doesn’t answer after two knocks, so Dick slowly pushes in. The seventeen year old was sprawled on the floor, headphones curled around his neck, steely music clashing through the foam pores. Clothes too clean to wash but too dirty to fold lay strewn across the room, the covers lay a torrid sea across the bed, and green kid’s juice boxes toppled over one another across the floor and the cluttered nightstand, yet the teen looked perfectly at peace amidst the chaos, starring languidly up at the ceiling fan and the popcorn ceiling behind it. 

“Don’t come in, I’m indecent,” Jason says, without ungluing his eyes from the ceiling. Dick sighs, stepping across the room to Jason’s bed, and begins straightening the covers.

“Hey, what’re you doing? I like them that way,” Jason says, frowning. Dick raises an eyebrow. 

“You prefer an unmade bed?” Dick asks. Jason pops his lips.

“Well, yeah. What’s the point of making it if I’m going to use it in a few hours?”

“But I’m making it for you,” Dick states. 

“That just gives me pressure to not mess it up. Now I’m never going to get any sleep.”

Dick eyes a bottle of melatonin on the nightstand.

“Seems like you have enough trouble as it is.”

Jason props himself up on elbows, eyes narrowing at Dick.

“So, boy wonder decided to grace us with a visit, hmm?”

Dick frowns at the nickname. “It’s summer,” he says. “I haven’t seen you guys since Christmas, so I figured I’d drive down here and pay a visit.”

Jason clucks his tongue. “So Bruce didn’t drag you down here?”

Dick presses his lips together. “He wasn’t against it.”

“Ha,” Jason barks, “you know, he’s having a gala this week. Probably wants you to go with him, a purse poodle, if you will.”

Dick doesn’t take the bait, instead, “So when’d you start taking melatonin?”

Jason doesn’t look up at Dick, but his stare at his socked feet is steely.

“Sometime after you left for New York, Dick.”

Dick isn’t sure whether Jason meant his name or not, but clears his throat nonetheless.

“Richard, actually,” he says, eyes filtering across the nightstand. A pack of condoms lay trapped beneath a torn book, and Dick wonders if he has it just cause, or if he’s somehow managed to sneak someone in, a feat no Wayne child has accomplished. 

Jason doesn’t respond immediately, and when Dick glances over, his eyes are glittering, seeing some invisible bait Dick didn’t know he cast. 

“Not even two full years, huh?” he says ambiguously. “Fun fact. We call Tim ‘Timofey’ now, and Hell spawn’s graduated to Satan.”

Dick lets himself a short laugh, and Jason lets himself a brief smile, before they’re quiet again. He feels like he’s overstayed his welcome in Todd’s room, and smooths one last wrinkle on the bed, before heading towards the door. 

“Am I gonna see you at dinner tonight?” he asks, more out of obligation than curiosity. Jason leans back down onto his back, returning to his vigil upon the fan.

“Depends. There might not be dinner,” Jason says as Dick closes the door. 

***

There is dinner, partly because Alfred is there to cook, and partly because Bruce and Jack finally make up on the counter of the basement bar, as well as the den couch and pool table. They’ve been through this process enough times to know it’s all a ploy to do the necessary to remedy an unnecessary situation, which itself suggests that either the necessary solution is unnecessary or the unnecessary conflict is necessary, and it all becomes too twisted and tangled within their heads, that the only way to take their minds off it is to commit the unnecessarily necessary act. And it’s great. They have a lot of bullshit with each other, but the sex is great.

But it’s not all about the sex. Or at least, Bruce doesn’t think it is. He was looking for love, and when the new guy from the employee transfer stumbled in, and Bruce just happened to be heading for the same Culligan, he thought he’d found love, especially when the other guy seemed unfazed that his billionaire boss was flirting with him. He even showed up to their first date unashamedly in a beat up sedan and a ripped pair of jeans, holding up two tickets for the cheapest movie showing, and Bruce fell hard for the fact that someone finally wasn’t sleeping with him for his money.

Of course, it turned out that Jack didn’t need to sleep with him for his money. Another part of Jack’s allure had been his intelligence, and apparently there was more of that than Bruce anticipated, for the guy had been wiring his money to a second bank account for years now, long before they even met, and some part of Bruce must have known there was more to Jack than meets the eye, because he was more surprised that his accountants missed the digits than that Jack was a criminal. 

He pulled out Jack’s record the night he found out. His record was innocent, however eccentric, including three years at a top university before he dropped out, two years of clown school in Europe, and a laundry list of big name internships that gleamed like gold on paper. No amount of internet searching nor database rifling dug up anything to suggest foul play with the man. For a few hopeful hours after one that night, he almost convinced himself that he seeing trouble where there was none. After all, it didn’t seem like Jack ever used the money he stole. He wore plain clothes, drove plain cars, and based his diet of the coupons that arrived in that week’s mail. 

He told no one of his suspicions, and instead continued seeing him for weeks afterwards, coming across no further evidence than the bank account and the traced information until Bruce gathered enough courage to snoop around Jack’s apartment one early morning. He’s been there before, although to do no more than watch tv, eat chinese, and have sex, and so the closets and cabinets offered boundless opportunities for evidence that made him shiver wrongfully in early morning adrenaline sparked glee. 

Almost disappointedly, he hit jackpot right away with the kitchen pantry, where, on the middle shelf in full view, was a cluster of orange medicine capsules huddled together like a colony of penguins, most of them nearly empty, but a few unopened. Apparently Jack Napier took the doctor’s orders with as much acquiescence as the suggestions of a novice bartender, and had blended his own kleptomania, insomnia (and as he later found out, pyromania) sanctioning cocktail.

He cornered Jack once the man woke up, and served him orange juice. Jack laughed, and downed the glass, and neither one of them mentioned the orange capsules in the closet, nor the sum of money in the second account. It had been a Saturday morning, Bruce remembers, because he spent the rest of that weekend watching Jack hallucinate and arguing with a sick man, because Bruce was angry and he was willing to get catharsis whichever way. It’s coarse, it’s blurry, and Bruce falls in love all over again when Jack rebounds with the sadistic need to be put down again and again, the two of them playing a game rigged for Bruce to win and Jack to lose, and yet there is some point being proven when Jack loses, and so Jack wins, wins, and wins. 

Bruce is fine with it, though. The sex is great.

At dinner, their knees touch. Bruce does what he needs to do. He thanks Alfred for the meal. He asks Dick questions about New York. He scolds Jason for arriving late to dinner. But what he really focuses on is how their skin touches when they pass each other the salt and pepper, the stares they catch of each other out of the corner of their eyes. It’s stupidly adolescent, and Bruce selfishly delves in it. 

Later that night, they huddle in the den together and piece together a puzzle with the tv on dateline in the background. The puzzle is of the Gotham city skyline, and over the course of their relationship, they’ve pieced it together over seven times, each time intending to find some glue and perhaps frame it somewhere, only to come up short on the last step, with Alfred inevitably having enough of the puzzle lying about, and cleaning it up. 

The program is on an old unsolved case this evening. A rerun of one involving a dead husband, a cheating wife, and the iffy other man. They pause in their puzzle making to watch the woman cry at her own guilt for cheating on her dead husband.

“Jesus christ,” they say in unison, before Jack continues. “Not even a dead husband can make her realize it’s not about her.”

They’ve watched it before, but that doesn’t stop them from mercilessly tearing the program apart, ridiculing people whose lives have been ruined and slandering situationally well executed detective work. After they both laugh as the woman starts crying again, now alone after the iffy other man left her for a family life, Bruce feels that rare tingle of self awareness, that maybe their relationship isn’t as complicated and convoluted as he makes it out to be. Maybe they’re just two bad people who help each other feel slightly better.


	2. Chapter 2

Tim appreciates questioning details that everyone else considers indisputable. Like when people close their eyes and turn towards the sun, does everyone, no matter the skin tone, see the same blood orange color that he does? Or, did the world smell different a hundred years ago? Now, with his window open, would summertime in the future still sound like the huffing hum of the air conditioning unit? 

Everything is all so questionable, particularly within the Wayne household, because no one is trustworthy. Not Bruce, not Damian, sometimes not even Alfred, and definitely not Jack. It wasn’t because they were liars - no. It was because their views were just so utterly distorted, the ludicrousness compounded by the fact that they believed in them wholeheartedly. 

While it would seem wise to place some conviction in Dick, the boy wonder of the family, Tim always, for some reason he could never place, trusted Jason more. It was one of the few things he trusted with his gut instead of what seemed logical and apparent. He would never tell Jason that, though. No way. 

Tuesday morning, Tim finds himself alone in the household with Damian and the crisp tick of the grandfather clock sounding all the way from downstairs. Dick had accompanied Alfred on a shopping trip, Bruce and Jack were at work, and Jason was just gone. And so he sighs and reluctantly knocks on Damian’s door.

“What?” Damian barks. He sounds aggravated, and Tim has no idea what he’s doing in there. He just stays in there all day with the door locked (not to say that Tim doesn’t do the same.)

“I’m going out,” Tim says. Damian doesn’t respond, so Tim clarifies. “I’m not going to be home until after dinner, so tell Bruce and the others so they know where I am. Alright?”

Damian grunts, which is usually enough of a acknowledgement as Tim could get out of him, but Tim wants today to go smoothly, so he knocks again on the door for emphasis.

“Did you hear me, Damian?” 

Damian huffs in exasperation. “Enough, Drake. I understand.”

Tim smiles, then closes the app on his phone. He had recorded the conversation (because even Tim, who strives to be sane amongst crazy, sometimes loses grasp of what’s normal.)

He leaves dressed in new flannel and worn jeans, and arrives at the park early. The girl shows up two minutes later, also early, wearing a modest sundress and strappy sandals. She smiles shyly at him, and he smiles back.

They walk and talk. It’s all so simple, and Tim loves it.

“So, what classes are you taking next year?” Tim asks, because school is always an easy topic. The girl shrugs, smiling bashfully.

“Just the normal classes, you know? US history, lang and comp, pre-calc, chem, and also band,” she says. “But I guess you’re taking more advanced classes,” she adds hastily. Tim nods, almost shamefully. It’s true.

“Yeah, I guess so,” he says, and the girl waits for him to continue. “I mean, they haven’t finalized schedules and all, but I think I’m gonna be taking AP US, AP lang, AP chem, AP psych, and maybe journalism,” Tim says, even though he is pretty sure he’s going to drop journalism. Saying it makes him sound more relatable, though.

“No math class?” the girl asks. Tim shakes his head.

“Nah, I’ve taken them all,” he says. The girl laughs.

“Lucky,” she says. Tim smiles, even though he doesn’t feel particularly lucky. 

They eventually settle on a park bench and make conversation at an easy pace, eyes lazily watching the people strolling through the city park, and once in while darting to each other. 

“You know,” the girl says blushing, because she’s about to break script, “I used to think that these benches had people buried beneath them.”

Tim whips his head to her, and catches her robin blue eyes. He sees flecks of green in them. “Because they have dedications on them?” he asks with a smile. The girl laughs in surprise.

“How did you know?”

“Me too.”

They get dinner from a downtown hotdog stand and eat messily at a quaint square tucked behind a farmer’s market. It’s still light out - reasonable, considering that it’s the beginning of summer, although somehow no one’s around. The girl seems to have noticed it too, and relaxes. They talk about pets.

“I’ve only ever had hamsters,” Tim says. The girl raises an eyebrow.

“Hamsters? With an ‘s’?”

Tim laughs. “Well, I got one, cause I was inspired by my third grade class pet, and then I got another, because I thought it was too lonely. Next thing I knew there was sixteen.”

“Gosh, that sounds adorable,” the girl comments wistfully. “Did you keep them?”

Tim swallows a bit of hot dog. “Nah. We kept one, then donated the rest to the animal shelter.” (“The lucky one,” Alfred had commented, until Bruce and Jason got into an argument which ended with Bruce kicking its cage across the room. It was then moved to the garage, where it subsequently died of carbon monoxide poisoning.)

“Anyways, enough about me. What about you?” Tim asks. “You seem like the dog type.”

She nods. “Well, yes but I’ve never got the chance to,” she says. “Mom’s allergic to them, although, now that I live with my dad, I guess maybe I can look into it.”

Tim waits, and the girl sure enough answers after chasing a bite of her meal, licking relish off her lips.

“My parents got divorced last year. My mom-” the girl hesitates “-she’s an alcoholic, and I guess Dad finally had enough of it.”

Tim looks down at the cobblestone ground. “I’m sorry to hear that.” The girl shakes her head, her eyes a bit shiny.

“No, it’s gonna be for the good,” she says. “My dad will finally be able to get out more, and my mom will get the rehab that she needs, although,” she pauses, and continues quietly, the trees brushing each other lightly above, and traffic whistling in the distance, “it just feels so lonely sometimes.”

Tim’s heart is pounding in his chest, and his gut is curling sourly all the way to his gums. He’s about to open his mouth and say ‘it’s okay, I understand. I mean, I only have one parent, and he’s not an alcoholic, but he’s crazy and doesn’t know it, because no one’s allowed to tell him that, and he’s on and off with his employee who has a medication list as long as my arm, and my brothers are all ansty nutjobs who either wear sunglasses in the house, does drugs, or wants to kill anyone who steps in their room, and hey, I know it’s not the same, but I understand, because I’m lonely too-’

But then his phone rings, and Tim apologizes, taking the call. It’s from Bruce.

“Hey Bruce-”

“Where the hell are you?” Bruce growls, and Tim’s eyebrows scrounge together, before remembering that his confident in the trip was Damian.

“Did Damian not tell you?” Tim asks, angry at Damian and yet not really expecting anything else. 

“Damian said you were in your room all day,” Bruce retorts, and Tim could practically see the spit flecks in the air. “Gotham is not a safe city, Tim. What in the world do you think you’re doing, going out there half a day without telling-”

“I told Damian,” Tim tries again, but Bruce ignores him.

“I don’t want you out there any longer. Where are you?”

Tim sighs, feeling an odd moment of peace as a gust of wind gently smooths against his cheek, smelling of summer. “I’m at the park on Waller street,” he relents. Bruce grunts.

“Don’t move. Alfred will be there in ten minutes,” Bruce grunts, and hangs up. Tim holds the phone to his cheek a moment longer, not wanting to turn around.

“Everything alright?” The girl asks. Tim nods.

“Yeah… something came up. I need to go home,” he says, and the girl nods, poorly masking her disappointment. She thought he was going to say something there, thought she was going to find someone-

“Well, I had fun,” she says. “Maybe we could do this again? Some other time?”

Tim digs the toe of his shoe into the cobblestone. He had fun too, and he felt something there, a connection he hasn’t had in a long time with anyone. But the magic was broken, and he doesn’t want to build a relationship to spend the rest of his life chasing after another moment of magic. He’s seen it done and he’s done it before, and it doesn’t work. It just ends in a lot of disappointment. 

“I’ll call you,” he compromises, and the girl nods quietly. 

***

Tim stomach curls stonily with dread as Alfred pulls up on the front drive. The car rocks back on its heels as it shifts into park. Through his window, Tim could make out that the living room light was on. Alfred sighs, and turns around.

“Just to warn you sir, they’ve already started.”

Tim takes one last breath of sweet summer air, savoring the faint blend of blue and orange and pink in the horizon before stepping back into the household. Sure enough, the hall leading from the foyer to the living room catches the dim glow of the living room light, and shadows of two figures dance on the wall. 

“Come on, it’s not a big deal. Kids mess up time to time. Don’t get so worked up about it-’

“Oh, so now you’re telling me how to parent my children? Of course none of this is a big deal to you, they’re not your kids! You don’t even understand what it’s like, finding your child missing when he’s supposed to be at home, in Gotham no less!”

“You’d think knowing three out of four kids for as long as you have would earn me some credit.”

“So what, you think you’re parenting material now?”

“I’m just saying that he’s alright, so maybe you could simmer down a bit-”

Fist against skin rings through the air - Tim knows it’s a punch and not a slap, because punches sound duller. He contemplates sneaking up the stairs. It’d be easy. No one would notice, and Tim could just crawl into bed within the dark confines of his room, kick off all his clothes, and just feel free and alone. 

But Tim feels guilty, and so he steps lightly into the living room, holding his breath. 

“Don’t you ever tell me to calm down. You are in no place to ever tell me to calm down. I shoulda let them take you away and let you rot-”

“Hi,” Tim says levelly, stepping into view. Bruce whips around from where he has his fingers pressed tightly against Jack’s collarbones and is pushing the man into the plush couch. Jack holds his palms against his left eye. 

“Tim,” Bruce says, stepping away from Jack, “where in the world have you been?” he demands. Tim rubs his arm.

“I was out with a friend,” Tim says. “We walked around the park and got dinner.”

“And was there a reason why you didn’t tell me?” Bruce’s jaw flexes. Tim tightens his hold on the edge of his shirt, twisting the cloth around a knuckle. 

“No one was home. I told Damian-”

“Damian said you were in your room.”

Tim grits his teeth. “Well, Damian lied.”

Bruce straightens at the accusation. “Give me one reason why your ten year old brother would lie about your whereabouts.”

He’s a spoiled brat, he hates me, and he’s a manipulative bastard flit through his mind, but Tim says none of them, knowing Bruce would never understand. Damian was perfect, not just perfect grades like Dick, but perfect everything - perfect looks, perfect personality, perfect habits - everything was perfect about Damian in Bruce’s eyes, no matter how much he may deny it. 

“Jason was also gone, and no one cared,” Tim tries to argue, but Bruce pinches his nose, doing that thing where he wrinkles his forehead and shuts his eyes tightly together as if he can’t stand the amount of stupidity in front of him. Tim really, really hates that look. 

“Tim, you really want to compare yourself to Jason?” Bruce says tiredly, and Tim huffs, because he has no right to sound tired. Tim was tired. 

“Well, you always compare me to Dick,” Tim argues, even though Bruce compares everyone to Dick. The only person oblivious to this, of course, was Dick himself.

“That’s different, Tim,” Bruce says. “That’s to motivate you to do well in school so one day you can be as successful as he is.”

“How come it’s always ‘different’ when you do it?” Tim snipes. He wants to say more, but Jack’s eyes are gleaming too excitedly in the background, and when that happens, he’s almost sure to open his mouth, and Tim did not want to be around for that.

“I’m an adult, so I have experience knowing when and when not to do something. You’re still learning,” Bruce says as an explanation. Tim keeps quiet. “I’m only trying to keep you safe, Tim.”

Tim keeps remaining quiet, knowing that if he waits it out, Bruce will talk himself into a dead end. 

That is, unless Jack interrupts.

“I guess I’m not an adult then,” he says, purposefully childishly. Like that, Bruce Wayne is riled up again, and Tim can’t help but see them both as children. 

“My god, Jack, I’m trying to have a conversation with my son, so one day he doesn’t turn into something as disgraceful as you.”

“Well, sorry to tell ya, but you’re already halfway there. Key ingredient is lousy parents.”

“That’s not related to what we’re talking about. God, can’t you just ever stay on topic?”

“Why do we have these ‘conversations,’ as you call them?”

“There’s no point in talking sense into you, is there?”

“Then why are you still trying?”

Tim sneaks away. His lines have been said, his part done. The stairs catch beneath his feet, and he almost trips, but he catches himself against the banister. Scuttling right past Damian’s room, he remembers the recording on his phone, but shakes his head. It’s definitely not worth it to go back down there. 

***

Right before he steps into his room, he catches the shadow that is Jason Todd at the end of the hallway. He’s staring at Tim, so Tim stares back.

“What do you want?” Tim asks levelly, trying to keep the aggravation from seeping into his voice. Jason’s eyes glint in the dark, the rest of his figure blurry like noise in a photograph. Tim thinks he’s smiling.

“Nothing. Just sounded like someone got a little hot and bothered down there,” Jason leers, winking. Tim huffs exasperatedly. “What can I say, kiddo. I’m proud, even if you did throw me under the bus.”

Tim lets his door click solidly behind him, leaving Jason in the hallway. After kicking off his shoes, which he’d forgotten to take off, and shrugging off his jeans and flannel, he pulls out his phone and stares at the screen in the dark, an alien blue glow emanating onto his face. He considers calling the girl, but chooses to toss his phone onto his desk instead. He doesn’t want any trouble.


	3. Chapter 3

If the Kardashians were the daughter of popular culture and daytime tv, then the Waynes were the brooding son who despised everything their family stood for, and consistently arrived to dinner fifteen minutes late. Sometime between Bruce’s second divorce with tv show host Vicky Vale and third marriage to actress Selina Kyle, the public fell in love with the chaotic Wayne family in the sick addictive way that they did. Thus, before it even had a chance to truly establish itself, the relationship between Bruce Wayne and Jack Napier was regarded with a hefty dose of controversy. 

There was, of course, the fact that they were a known gay couple in a world still assimilating. However, most of the contention stemmed from the fact that, while Bruce Wayne’s past relationships were quite public - regularly plastered on checkout counter tabloids - his newest relationship was kept under wraps and seemed to be going nowhere. It was well known that Bruce Wayne married within a month of first meeting, and divorced her a year later. The fact that the Bruce Wayne Jack Napier debacle has been on and off for seven years now and that no vows have been shed ultimately suggested, to the torrential force known as the media, that Bruce Wayne was ashamed. 

Unfortunately, it didn’t end there. Between the Talia Al Ghul affair during one of the couple’s off months and the alleged reports from Wayne Enterprise employees that broken flower pots would be left as a signature in conference rooms where the couple has had a ‘chat,’ it became apparent that if the relationship wasn’t healthy, then it was at least partially dysfunctional, and not the gay representation that the world needed. 

PR was not impressed, and so once in a while, the couple were condemned like misbehaved children to convince the public that they were very much normal, and thus date night was born. 

Unfortunately, Bruce is still not on speaking terms with Jack as of last night, after the other man had drifted to the guest room, allowing both men to finely age their anger for almost nine hours as of now. They both know the date though, and meet begrudgingly in the foyer after breakfast, donning casual clothes that would make them appear ‘relatable,’ as PR proclaimed. Bruce takes one look at Jack and scowls.

“You can’t go out like that,” Bruce states, breaking their silent streak. Jack makes a show of patting down his clothes self consciously.

“Oh dear, it makes my hips look big, doesn’t it?”

Bruce grinds his teeth. 

“Go cover it up,” he demands. Jack’s fingers drift to his swollen black eye.

“Oh, you mean this?” Jack says with a wicked smile, before plumping his lips into a pout. “Do I have to? My dearest gave it to me as a gift. It makes me feel so _wanted,_ so _proud.”_

Bruce grits his teeth. 

“Don’t play games, Jack. Go cover it up before we’re late.”

Jack crosses his arms. “Well, I want to keep it.”

_“Jack.”_

_“Bruce,”_ Jack imitates. 

Bruce manages to restrain his hands from lashing out and doing something, instead taking a deep breath. 

“Is there anything I can do to convince you?” Bruce seeths through clenched teeth. Jack digs the toe of his shoe into the marble tile.

_“Weeeellllll,”_ Jack drawls out, “Maybe there’s one thing.”

“And what would that happen to be?” Bruce asks wryly. Jack taps his chin thoughtfully.

“You know that gala on Friday?” Jack begins.

“No,” Bruce interjects firmly. 

“But why?” Jack just out his bottom lip, posture falling to a sag. He kicks the marble floor disappointedly.

“You’ll just cause trouble. Besides, I’m taking Dick,” Bruce says. “He could learn a thing or two from these events.”

“Yeah, but it wouldn’t be that weird if you also took me. After all, we’re like-”

“No, we are not,” Bruce interrupts poignantly. Jack huffs.

“Well, I guess I’ll just have to go out like this then,” he says, and Bruce feels anger surging up from his chest. “But,” Jack blinks innocently up at Bruce, “at least everyone will know I’m yours.”

“Fine, fine, you happy?” Bruce relents, throwing his hands up into the air. “Now go upstairs and cover it up.”

“Wait, wait,” Jack says excitedly. “I want to hear you say it!”

“What?” Bruce snaps. 

“It, your promise! I want to hear you say it!”

Bruce takes another deep breath, reminding himself that he’s doing this for the sake of PR.

“I’ll take you to the gala on Friday,” he mutters. Jack giggles exuberantly. “Now go change,” Bruce growls, as Jack scurries up the stairs. 

***

“Mmh, isn’t this salad just exquisite, dear?” Jack asks with a particularly vicious stab at a cherry tomato. Choppy shade presses against his pale skin from the olive vines curling around the patio planks above. Around them, slick high heels and cologne pressed shirts happily discuss the weather over overpriced salad, the restaurant having been swooned under the recent health-consumerism epidemic.

“Why indeed, darling,” Bruce says robotically, as a camera snaps behind them. The couple they’ve wrangled into double dating eyes the two of them a bit warily. 

“It is quite fresh,” Katherine chips in. “I hear they get their shipment from an organic farm just outside the city.”

“Really?” Rob adds, pinching a crisp chunk of romaine with the prongs of his fork. “That’s terrific. I know they say it’s a fad and all, but this health trend might just do the world some good by funding these small family farms.”

Katherine and Rob are good people, Bruce knows. Katherine runs one of the non profits Bruce funds and Rob is a film director who has done several documentaries on world hunger and third world sanitation. If more people were like them, the world would be a better place. It’s just that Bruce gets bored around good people. 

“Mmh,” Katherine hums. “My sister, you know Margaret, she stopped eating carbs last year, and now she’s trying out a vegan diet.”

“How’s that working for her?” Rob asks.

“Wonders, apparently,” Katherine says. “Might give it a go myself.”

More cameras snap behind them.

“Ya know, there’s this sect of people out there who eat, like, hardly anything living,” Jack says, twirling his fork in the air and examining the bleeding tomato on the end like a victim. “They’re basically vegan, except they don’t eat root vegetables either, if I remember correctly.”

“My, then what do they eat?” Katherine asks. Jack shrugs.

“Certain vegetables they consider ‘lowly’ enough, and then herbs. Something to do with karma. They believe in complete _non-violence,_ ” Jack says the last word somewhat bitterly. “They only drink water after passing it through a cloth, in order to save any organisms that might have gotten in there. There’s no honey, cause that’s violence against bees or something. Oh, and no day old food, cause micro-organisms might have grown on it.”

“Goodness, but isn’t that like violence against themselves?” Rob asks bewilderedly. 

Before Jack can continue, Bruce interrupts. 

“Well, I don’t think I’d ever go to that extreme,” he says, “but perhaps they have a point. Violence is violence, and we’re one of the few creatures in this world who can be self aware of it. Perhaps if we have the ability to realize it, then we should do something about it.”

Katherine opens her mouth to say something, but Jack beats her to the chase.

“Hmm, interesting argument, _sweetpea,_ I always thought of them as selfish more than selfless, really,” Jack hums lightly. “I mean, they do it for karma, so they can eventually be free from the endless cycle of reincarnation. It feels more like trying to escape the world guilt free with a ticket to wonderland, doesn’t it?”

Bruce feels his finger twitch. “Regardless of why, they’re making a major sacrifice and sticking to a strict rule, which, if you ask me, is hardly selfish,” Bruce says. “The end result is good, so does it really matter why they do it, _sugarplum?”_

Jack’s eyes gleam. “Are they doing good, though? If they don’t kill the bees, then someone else will. And besides, if they can’t survive without humans there to protect them, then they aren’t meant to last on this world, honeybunches.”

“Then it’s a good thing humans do exist then, and are born equipped with morals and sympathy, isn’t it, pumpkin? So that we can stick around and protect what we feel is right.”

“Morals,” Jack says exasperatedly, “people uphold them to, what, feel good about themselves? Eradicate guilt? People just want to feel like they’ve done something, even though in the end everyone dies and nothing really makes a difference. But that’s just too hard to accept, isn’t it, Sweet-ums? People just find it so hard to accept that what they’re doing is pointless, and so they have to go make up something to convince themselves that there is meaning to it all.”

“But you just said it! The fact that people want to do something in the first place, regardless if they feel like they need a reason for it, is enough to suggest that people want to do good, cupcake.”

“Yes, but theoretically and realistically are two very different worlds, and you are talking about the theoretical world here, doll face, and while we live in the real world. In the real world, people _succumb,_ even if they do have morals.”

“Well obviously there are people who don’t, cuddle cakes, considering-”

“Can I get you more water?”

A waitress smiles blindingly at them. The haze that fogged Bruce’s brain slowly ebbs away as the sunlight suddenly slants searingly into his eyes, the world seeing to settle into existence again. 

“Uh, yes, please,” Bruce says, as the others say the same. Once the watier’s heels click off, a silence settles over the table. Bruce sets down his fork as Jack bites into his cherry tomato with zeal. Both Katherine and Rob stare at their salads uneasily. 

A camera snaps behind them.

“Darling,” Katherine says all of a sudden, alarmed. “What happened to your neck?”

Bruce’s eyes snap to Jack’s collar, where a necklace of fingerprint shaped bruises dance around the base of his throat, like some demented finger paint art project. Panic flares in Bruce’s chest. He doesn't remember seeing them before, although he supposes the collar could have shifted sometime during the meal. 

“God, are you alright?” Rob asks, his eyes unconsciously flicking past Bruce. There were whispered rumors in the upper levels of Wayne Enterprise that no one dare speak out loud.

“Oh, this?” Jack chuckles, although his eyes stay on Bruce just a second too long. “It’s nothing. I let the little one ride piggy back, and he hung on just a bit too tight. You know kids, can’t resist.”

Bruce’s eye twitches. He would never let Jack piggy back Damian. 

“Oh… wow,” Katherine murmurs. “That kid’s got a strong grip then.”

In response, Bruce and Jack both take a long sip of water. Katherine grabs the silence back the back of the neck. 

“So, Gotham’s been having quite fair weather recently, hasn’t it?”

Half an hour later, and Bruce feels his stomach curl in hunger. He’s only had a few bites of that salad, which was hardly filling at all. A glance at his watch tells him it’s nearly one. 

“You know what,” Bruce says, “Jack and I best be going on our way. We have a meeting in thirty that we just can’t miss.”

“Oh, it’s no problem,” Katherine says, clearly relieved that they were leaving. Jack stifles a laugh from that. 

“Well, it was nice seeing you two again,” Bruce says, shaking their hands.

“Mmh, yes, brilliant,” Jack says, even leaning down to embrace Katherine instead. The two pay their bill and exit onto the sidewalk. A man in a hoodie starts trailing them, camera covering his face. Bruce pulls Jack closer and curls a hand around his waist. Jack leans in, and Bruce presses a kiss to his forehead. A camera snaps behind them.

“So, meeting at two, huh?” Jack says. 

“Had to come up with something,” Bruce says as an answer. Jack hums understandingly.

“Your friends were so borrringg,” Jack says. “Plus that salad sucked.”

Bruce can’t help but let out a laugh. 

“Let’s get something else, hm?”

***

The Aventador was thick with salt and grease, jaundice lights seeping through the windshield and settling on the dashboard. Two large shakes condense in foam cups in the cupholders. Balled up napkins keep one another company on the dashboard. 

“No, you gotta toss it higher, so it gets more air time.”

“Yeah, but low ceiling, remember?”

Jack rolls his eyes, but slouches in his seat, making himself shorter. Bruce underhands a tater tot into the air, and it bops off Jack’s nose and onto the seat, adding another grease mark to the dark upholstery. 

“Jeez, don’t aim so far back. My mouth’s here.”

“Yeah, I know.”

Bruce tosses it again, shorter this time, and Jack catches it out of the air.

“See?” Jack says through a mouth of potato, “believe, and it will be possible.”

“Ha,” Bruce scoffs, and gets a dirty tatertot to the cheek in response. 

The blue clad teenagers crowded in the small Sonic kitchen stare at the two men gorging on large milkshakes and greasy fast food in the Aventador, wondering how two people in the same world as them could live such dramatically different lives.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading :-)


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Does this chapter suck? Probably. But you know what? College sucks.  
> Warnings: smut scene at end. dub con themes.

Late in the evening, Dick knocks on Jason’s door. The teen doesn't answer, and so Dick pushes in. He finds Jason lying on the floor as usual, room imbued with a blue evening glow. The window had been pulled all the way open, letting in cricket chirps and the occasional croon of a turtledove. 

“You know, one of these days I’m gonna be masturbating,” Jason says. Dick takes a seat at Jason’s desk. Wrappers litter the surface, predominantly Slim Jims. Dick resists the urge to clean them up. 

“No Friday night plans?” Dick asks. Jason taps his fingers against his belly. 

“Well, now that it’s on my mind, probably jerking off.”

Dick tries to seem unfazed. “No friends?” he asks. Jason shrugs.

“Maybe I’ll watch an episode or two afterwards. Depends if I get the post-coital blues.”

Dick furrows his eyebrows, ready to speak, but Jason beats him to it.

“What about you? Whatever did I do to deserve your presence on this humble Friday?”

Dick collects himself. Right, he had a mission.

“Actually, I was wondering if you wanna get out a bit?” Dick says, hoping to sound easygoing. He sneaks a look at Jason’s face, but just finds him staring expressionless  
at the ceiling. “You know, get some fresh air, stop for some food, you name it.”

The wind lightly whacks the window screen. 

“I mean, Alfred’s a great cook, but surely you must miss fast food,” Dick ventures on, unsure what to make of the silence. “Tim and Dami might have grown up this way, but you and I remember McDonald’s being our childhood, right?” Dick cracks a smile.

Jason keeps staring at the ceiling, and Dick wonders what is going through his head. Though there had been numerous times when Dick wished he would just shut up, his silences were unnerving. It was a reminder that Jason did in fact think, and there was some form of calculatedness behind his obscure actions.

“Well, how about it?” Dick tries again. “We can come back anytime you wanna.”

Tree branches brush dryly outside the window.

“Sure,” Jason says. Dick straightens in surprise.

“What?”

Jason rolls onto his stomach, his face now turned away.

“I said sure,” Jason said. “Just give me a second to change.”

“Of course, of course,” Dick said, and got up to the door. He sent one last glance back at Jason, who stared where the carpet met the wall, unblinking. 

***

They wind up in a suburb outside Gotham, bathing beneath the yellow of a McDonald’s sign in the parking lot. Jason has his sneakers up on the console, occasionally uncrossing and recrossing his legs, as if hoping to get a reaction out of Dick. Which he would not, Dick resolves. Dashboards were cleanable, replaceable. His relationship with Jason was salvageable at best. 

“How has school been?” Dick asks, lacking anything else to say. Jason chomps down on his fries, wiping his oily fingers on his jeans. 

“Eh,” Jason says. “I’m failed english, and probably also math. Not completely sure, though. Haven’t bothered to check my grades.” Jason sniffs, almost haughty. Dick can’t tell if he’s trying to be theatrical. “Nevermind me, though, Delilah, what’s it like in New York City?”

Dick feels he deserves some elaboration, but moves on. He’s being tested here. 

“It’s good. Different. Certainly no Gotham, but then again, maybe that’s a good thing.”

Jason hums indifferently, before biting aggressively into a fry. 

“That’s a boring response,” Jason says. Dick raises a puzzled eyebrow.

“Excuse me?” 

Jason rolls his eyes. “Your small talk. If we’re going to do this, at least give me something to work with.”

Dick sighs internally. 

“Okay, okay. Well, uh. It’s sorta reminds me of Metropolis, or at least what I remember of Metropolis. People are just… happier, it feels. Though, I don’t know,” Dick says. “It also gets boring there, at times.”

Jason stares at Dick, eyes boring into the side of his head. He munches innocently on his fries. 

“Do you ever think about what it was like before Bruce adopted you?” Jason asks. Dick nearly gets whiplash at the topic change. 

“I-I, I mean, of course, now and then. I imagine you do too.”

Jason stares at the dashboard. 

“What do you think about?”

Images come to Dick’s mind of a life that seems so far removed. Mostly his mind fills with little details, incoherent ones that would make no sense to Jason, like where the stains were mapped on the carpet, or how the afternoon sun slanted through the blinds and onto the walls like gold. Mixed in were brief memories of his parents, mostly how they smelled, the shape of their fingernails, and where his mom kept the perfumes she never wore. 

“My parents, sometimes,” Dick says. “My room. Just… little things.”

Jason nods quietly. 

“Don’t you ever wonder how we got here?” Jason asks. “Living with a billionaire in his mansion outside Gotham?”

Dick feels uncomfortable. He’s not sure why.

“Sometimes,” Dick says, though whenever the thought comes to mind, he squashes it before it manifests into somethings greater. 

“Do you think he thinks he’s doing something good?” Jason asks.

“What?”

“Bruce,” Jason says. “Do you think Bruce thinks he’s being a good person, adopting all these orphans?”

“I…” Thoughts roll through Dick’s head. “I think that’s why he’s doing it… he thinks it’ll make him a good person…”

“But he knows it doesn’t, doesn’t he?” Jason says. 

Dick swallows a lump in his throat.

“You know, three weeks ago Bruce went on that overseas trip?” Jason asks.

“Yeah?”

For the first time, Jason hesitates, but not for long.

“I was at home, and I was just thinking. What would happen if his plane crashed?”

Dick sucks in a breath.

“I mean, how would I feel? How would any of us feel? We’d all say we feel sad, but-” Jason bites the inside of his cheek “-wouldn’t life be so much… easier?”

Dick doesn’t want to talk about this anymore. For a moment, he regrets bringing Jason out. But I got to win him back, Dick thought. He’s testing me.  
Dick is aware that, somewhere between graduating summa cum laude and landing a top dog job at Wall street, he’s failed to become a good brother to Jason Todd. To be fair, Dick was sixteen and stupid at the time. Bruce had been between his third divorce and what would be a tumultuous affair with Talia Al Ghul, while Jack Napier had just been freshly introduced to the game. When ten year old Jason stumbled through the door with a box of plastic guns and legos, Dick had placed him into the ‘everyone else’ box in his mind for the convenience of it all. 

Now, though, Dick can’t even look at his diploma without the gnawing guilt of whether he really was successful after all. 

“Maybe it would be easier,” Dick says slowly. “But I kind of prefer it this way. You don’t know this till you’re out there, but all this becomes a part of you. I used to think that way too. That Bruce and all of that wasn’t who I was, but you go out there to NYC, and you become a Wayne.” 

Jason is blank faced beside him. Dick hopes he didn’t say anything wrong. 

***

Tim waits till both Dick and Jason are out the house before pulling out his phone. Bruce and Jack had left for the gala, and with Damian most likely asleep, he was safe to talk. He dials the number, and waits three rings until she picks up. 

“Tim?”

Tim sighs in relief. 

“Hey.”

“Hey.”

A beat of silence passes. 

“Is everything alright?”

Tim stops to consider.

“I suppose.”

“You wanna talk about it?” 

Her voice is so kind, so inviting. Tim resists. 

“Nah, I’m just tired. How are you?”

A pause.

“Good. Summer’s wearing me out.”

Tim chuckles. 

“Yeah. Same here.”

A pause. 

“You still there?” she asks. 

“Yeah.”

“Oh, good.”

Tim stares down at his knuckles. 

“Well, just wanted to check in. Maybe we can hang out next weekend?”

“That’ be great, Tim.”

Tim smiles. 

“Great.”

“Yeah.”

“I guess I’ll see you then.”

“Yeah, I guess so. Goodnight, Tim.”

“Goodnight.”

***

Bruce fucks himself roughing up into Jack, who gasps softly, and tightens his thin fingers over their grip on Bruce’s shoulders. It’s one in the morning, and they’re both on the floor of Bruce’s bedroom, the thick blue light of night dripping through the window blinds and onto the floor. Their gala clothes lie strewn on across the carpet and furniture. The bed’s right behind them, perfectly made, but they ignore it. They both prefer hard surfaces, and are way past the point of trying to resemble a courteous couple. 

“You should have stayed in your place,” Bruce whispers, and slaps a bit too hard the skin of Jack’s ass. Jack’s legs tremble. So often they went fast and rough that Bruce forgot how enjoyable slow and rough was. 

“I’ve lived here for the past six years,” is all Jack says. Why aren’t I part of the family goes unsaid. 

“They’re mine,” Bruce says in response, and thrusts sharply up into Jack for emphasis. This is Bruce’s favorite position. Him lying with the rough carpet beneath his back, and Jack hovering above him with his legs spread wide. It was the perfect allusion, tricking Jack into thinking he had all the power when it was in fact Bruce who held it. 

“Why won’t you just let me,” Jack asks, a hint of desperation making his voice squeaky. 

“Because you’re crazy,” Bruce says, enjoying the drag as he pulls out slowly. 

“I’m not crazy,” Jack says defiantly. “I’m on all of my meds. How can I be crazy?”

Bruce only grunts in response, hands rubbing up and down Jack’s pale sides, staring at milky skin through tight eyes. The neighbor’s dog barks outside - Bruce wonders why, maybe a squirrel? Or was there an intruder, and he should be worried?

He’s broken out of his daze when Jack pulls off, inching his way up Bruce’s stomach so his eyes are right inline with Bruce’s. Bruce feels cold.

“Tell me I’m not crazy,” he demands, and Bruce grunts, not wanting to talk, and instead attempts to push Jack back down. Jack doesn’t budge.

“What are you doing?” Bruce asks gruffly.

“Tell me I’m not crazy,” Jack repeats, and Bruce scoffs.

“Really? Right now?”

“Then why don't’ you just say it?”

Bruce knows if he just says it everything will resume, and they could ignore the conversation, but he remains silent instead, the chirping of summer crickets outside seeping into his awareness. 

“Come on, say it-”

“You’re being ridiculous, Jack,” Bruce says, annoyed that this was going on longer than he anticipated. 

“Say that I’m not crazy.”

“Oh for fuck’s sake,” Bruce says, and roughly yanks Jack back down and thrusts back into him. Jack grunts and tries to push off, but Bruce holds him tightly in place. Now he remembers why they always go fast and rough. When they go fast, they don’t have to talk. 

“Say it,” Jack growls as Bruce fucks him relentlessly. He’s barely even halfway enthusiastic - in fact, he felt cold, and the adrenaline has washed off - but he keeps thrusting anyway, because there’s a point to be proven here, somewhere. “

“Why won’t you just shut the fuck up?” Bruce seethes, as Jack’s nails sink into his shoulders. “You think this is a game? Is this all just a big joke to you?”

“Say it,” Jack repeats shakily as his body takes Bruce’s force. “Say it say it say it-”

Bruce doesn't say a word, and remains silent through his climax, which feels cold and unsatisfying. When he’s done, they both push away from each other. Jack rolls onto the carpet and scutters off into the bathroom, shutting the door but not turning on the lights. Bruce lies there for a moment, breathing heavily and listening to the noises that had temporarily faded into the background. 

He’s too tired to do much clean up, and instead just wipes his hand on a discarded shirt before crawling into bed, pulling the sheets up to his chin. He feels a chronic, hollowing feeling in his chest, like someone dug a well there and the water had long evaporated, rendering it useless. The air is filled with a vibrating, buzzing darkness, as if there were molecules thick and stifling the room with a dark blue crepuscular creature. The only thing that grounds Bruce to reality and reels him in from the dangerous endless turns of the dark are the slight noises from the bathroom, because while Jack could be silent when he wanted to, the house’s creaky floorboards towards the back left corner would not allow it. 

Jack doesn’t come out until what feels like an hour later. Bruce tries to relax in bed, deepening his breath and feigning sleep. Jack crawls in behind him, the soft fabric of his boxers brushing Bruce’s back. It stays there for a moment, and Bruce feels a tickle on the back of his neck, as if Jack was watching him. Bruce is almost sure he was wrong until Jack sighs, and inches himself down under the covers. He curls upon himself against Bruce’s back, lips soft where they brush Bruce’s skin, and Bruce feels that hollowness in his chest wither away.

***

When Bruce wakes up alone the next morning, he definitely regrets it, and realizes that it was the perfect allusion, because Bruce never, never held the power.


End file.
